Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation

by Michael Bond

  He stared at them. It was hard to tell what nationality they were. Mid-European? Refugees from some Balkan state? They weren’t French, that was for sure. The shorter of the two could have been a prize fighter. He had cauliflower ears and a toothpick between his teeth. It looked permanently attached. Both were dressed in a uniform of sorts; dark-blue tee shirts, jeans and well-worn gym shoes. They didn’t look particularly unfriendly; simply indifferent. Any interest in him was purely academic. He wondered if they had come from the fairground.

  He tried writhing on the spot holding on to his crotch.

  The taller of the two took in the mime at a glance.

  ‘He wants to use his pecker.’ He spoke reasonable English, but with a strong American accent.

  The short one removed his toothpick. ‘While he’s still got one.’ The thought seemed to strike him as funny.

  The tall one nodded. ‘That’ll be the first thing to go when the time comes.’

  It was hard to tell if they were speaking English because they assumed he wouldn’t understand, or because they knew he would and it was part of a none-too-subtle softening up process.

  It might, of course, be yet another example of the third alternative. English might be their only common language. You never knew who spoke what tongue when it came to the Balkans.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse decided to play dumb, hoping he might hear something useful in the process. He soon wished he hadn’t.

  There was a brief technical discussion in minute detail as to the order in which he might lose various parts of his body, how it would be done and what would happen to them once they had been removed. Comparisons were made with similar situations in the not too distant past. The consensus of opinion was that neither of them would fancy being in his shoes; especially if he turned out to be stupid and didn’t talk. In which case he was certain to lose his legs anyway. Ho! Ho! Ho! He felt the shorter of the two eyeing his shoes for size.

  At least he now knew why he was being held, but that was small comfort. That he was dealing with the Mafiya was also obvious. But if it had to do with the missing child they would be unlucky; he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know. Not that such a minor detail would stop them trying. And in between? Being safely dead and buried might well be a luxury he would find himself crying out for.

  In normal circumstances he was confident he could face the prospect of meeting his maker without feeling too hard done by. But while he was hale and hearty, he had no desire to see a lingering death staring him in the face through no fault of his own, and he had no intention of going down without a fight.

  He wondered if his present minders had a price. Even if they did, he was in no position to offer any guarantees. Besides, they would know which side their bread was buttered on, and it would be a case of the devil you knew.

  He tried another mime, this time genuinely more urgent, adding a heartfelt groan for good measure. The message went home.

  As they left the room the shorter of the two men stationed himself at the top of a flight of stairs ready to block any attempt at escape, while his partner hastily led the way along a short corridor.

  Opening a door, he took a brief look inside. At least there was no room for more than one person at a time. Monsieur Pamplemousse waited until the man emerged, then entered, firmly pushing the door shut behind him. Apart from obeying the call of nature he was no better off. There was no bolt on the inside and the only window was a tiny one, high up and virtually out of reach without standing on the toilet. Once again, it was remotely controlled, but it was far too small to squeeze through, even if he’d felt inclined to risk it without knowing what floor he was on. All the same he tried opening it for luck.

  Then, just as he was about to flush the toilet he paused. Somewhere, far below him he could hear the sound of children at play. Suddenly everything fell into place and he realised where he was.

  It figured: the fortress-like construction; the high-tech electrics everywhere. The realisation gave him hope. One thought swiftly followed another. Feeling inside a half-forgotten hip pocket of his trousers his fingers touched gold.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. Already he could hear a restless movement in the corridor outside. Any second there would be a knock on the door. Pressing one foot against it, he lifted the lid of the cistern and checked the inside.

  What he had in mind was probably a forlorn gesture; akin to being marooned on a tiny island in the Pacific and putting a message into a bottle hoping someone would find it, but anything was better than nothing.

  Back in the room and left to his own devices, Monsieur Pamplemousse entered what promised at the time to be the second longest period in his life. Not that he was anxious for visitors. The measured tread of people coming up the stairs was not something he was looking forward to hearing. Deprived of any means of telling the time, he was reduced to playing a guessing game with himself. Having decided he must be in the tower block at the school, he tried getting some idea from what he calculated must be the sun’s position in the sky.

  It could be, of course, that with the Mafiya turning out in force they were all still in Nice.

  The rescue when it came had all the hallmarks of a Special Services force storming a hijacked plane, except that no shots were fired.

  There was everything else: sirens, the roar of engines, tyres screeching, shouts, a woman screaming. Then came the pounding of feet up the stairs, followed by more shouting and an exchange of oaths. There was a great crash on his door and the business end of an axe broke through the centre panel. A face appeared in the gap.

  ‘Où est-il?’

  ‘Where is it?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse sized up the situation in a flash. He recognised the symptoms all too clearly. The strained expression on the man’s face. The wild look in his eyes. The sense that there was not a moment to lose.

  ‘You have come to the wrong room,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is the door on your right at the end of the corridor!’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘If I had known then what I know now, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, ‘I would never have sent you to Nice.’

  And if I knew then what I know now, Monsieur,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘I might not have gone.’

  Except, of course, he would have done. Anyway, the Director didn’t know the half of it. He had deliberately kept his story short. Had he not done so, Monsieur Leclercq would have gone into every detail at great length and they would have been stuck in his office until Doomsday. As it was, Pommes Frites was already beginning to show signs of unrest.

  He’d been right about the flowers. Doucette hadn’t been the only person to be let into the secret of the scam. Word had reached Monsieur Leclercq and he in turn had passed it on to Madame Grante. It also explained the absence of any other mourners from Le Guide.

  The Director picked up the egg and held it for a moment. It was a gesture Monsieur Pamplemousse had become all too familiar with. The careful weighing in the palm of the hand, followed by a closer look; then the holding of it up to the light.

  ‘To think that someone died because of this!’ Monsieur Leclercq selected a button from one of a row let into his desk and pressed it, causing a slatted blind in the south-facing wall of his office on the top floor of Le Guide’s headquarters in the rue Fabert to rise. Sunshine streamed in as he crossed to the window.

  ‘Chantal must never know, of course,’ he continued, holding the egg up to the light. ‘She would be mortified. She loves her uncle very dearly, but he can be over-generous at times – especially with other people’s property.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. ‘If it hadn’t been the egg, Monsieur, it would have been something else. A painting, perhaps. A figurine.’

  ‘If only it had the power of speech, what tales it could probably tell. Sagas involving the cream of the Russian aristocracy. Stories of love and intrigue …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse pointedly, ‘it is better for all of us that it can’t talk, parti
cularly when it comes to describing more recent events.’

  The Director hastily changed the subject.

  ‘I must say it does look in need of a polish. It is slightly encrusted with dirt here and there. On the other hand, the sunshine makes it look almost good enough to eat.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur Leclercq sniffed the egg.

  ‘You are right, Aristide. I do detect a somewhat peculiar odour, not unlike one that has gone addled. It is hard to place, but …’ Pondering the problem, he gazed out across the rooftops of Paris, as though seeking inspiration in the golden dome of the Hôtel des Invalides. ‘Where have I come across it before?’

  ‘With respect, Monsieur, I think you should set your sights a little lower,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘What are you saying, Aristide?’

  ‘The oeuf you are holding to your nose has recently spent some time wallowing in the mire beneath the streets of Nice.’

  ‘Dans les egouts?’ The Director nearly dropped it at the thought. ‘What, may I ask, was it doing in the sewers of the Côte d’Azur? Come to that, what were you doing down there, Pamplemousse? It is no wonder you are without a tan. Don’t tell me you were testing the canteen facilities? However good they are, they are hardly likely to be on our list of recommended eating establishments. I can’t picture them being worthy of a bar stool, let alone a Stockpot, although a stool might well be an apposite symbol.’

  ‘I doubt if the inhabitants would appreciate such an award anyway, Monsieur. In my experience bureaucracy is often at its worst below street level. The employees of sanitation departments seem to hold a jaundiced view of those in other walks of life. Welcome is not writ large on their faces if you happen to come across an open manhole and look down on them. Rather the reverse.’

  ‘When you are working below ground like that, Pamplemousse,’ said the Director reprovingly, ‘exposed to human detritus for hours on end, I daresay it is all too easy to take a jaundiced view of the goings-on overhead, especially when it is somewhere like Nice, devoted as it is to the sybaritic pleasures of life. The contrast must be even greater than usual when you come up for air.’

  ‘On the other hand, Monsieur, if they are anything like the Paris sewers, they do say that after the waters have been processed it is possible to drink them.’

  ‘They – whoever “they” may be – can say it until they are blue in the face. I very much doubt if those in charge practise what they preach. I shall remain faithful to those waters emanating from the springs of Vichy, preferably Celestin.

  ‘However, all that is by the by. It doesn’t explain what the egg was doing down there in the first place.’

  ‘The simple explanation, Monsieur, is that I had the misfortune to lose it down one of the open manholes I mentioned. It would be wrong if you were to thank me for its recovery. I was lying in the road at the time. It was entirely Pommes Frites’ doing.’

  ‘Pommes Frites!’ The Director’s voice softened as he turned and gazed towards a dark corner of the room where a familiar form was sitting quietly beneath a small table listening to the conversation. ‘Hiding his light under a bushel as ever.’

  ‘They do say a bloodhound can pick up a trail that is anything up to two weeks old,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘On this occasion it was fresh—’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ broke in the Director, ‘it was a signal achievement. He must have had a wide choice. It says a great deal for his olfactory powers that from all the scents assailing his nostrils he was able to pick up that of a single oeuf.’

  Hand extended, the Director set off to traverse the vast expanse of carpet in order to offer his congratulations, but as he drew near Pommes Frites he seemed to think better of it and turned instead to a control panel let into the wall and turned one of the knobs.

  A draught of cool air wafted across the room, ruffling Pommes Frites’ fur in the process.

  ‘Sacrebleu!’ Monsieur Leclercq hastily turned the knob as far as it would go in the reverse direction.

  Uttering cries of ‘formidable!’ he retraced his steps and flung open a window. ‘One thing is certain, Pamplemousse. Others will have no trouble following Pommes Frites’ trail for some weeks to come.’

  ‘I fear the smell lingers,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘Notwithstanding several baths in strong disinfectant before leaving Nice, we had the carriage to ourselves on the train back to Paris.

  ‘We met with a similar problem on the autobus this morning. Fortunately the number 80 was extremely crowded and we had to stand, so few people knew where the smell was coming from, but it was not a happy journey. There was a good deal of unrest: cries of “merde!” and “nom d’un nom!” mingled with shouts of “Stop the bus”. Half the occupants wanted the windows open, the other half said it only made matters worse and wanted them closed. The latter won, of course. It is the rule. When there is an argument those who want it closed have priority.’

  ‘I have never been on an autobus,’ said the Director. ‘It is another world. Perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘he might appreciate going through the car wash at my local garage. He could take this egg with him and kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘It is only a matter of time,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I am meeting my wife shortly. Doucette is of the opinion that a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens followed by a dip in the Seine will work wonders.’

  ‘Would that I could accompany you, Aristide,’ said the Director, ‘but I fear I have an important meeting scheduled.’

  Returning to his desk he opened a drawer. ‘Changing the subject – and this will please Pommes Frites too – it so happens that I have a surprise for you both.’

  Removing a small parcel he began slowly unwrapping it, milking the moment for all he was worth.

  ‘Le Guide’s issue camera has been found. It had been buried in the sand on the beach outside the Hôtel au Soleil d’Or. By sheer chance a small child who had been given a treasure seeker for her birthday came across it. She has been suitably rewarded, of course. I have sent her a signed copy of this year’s guide.

  ‘Had you gone to Le Touquet as planned, who knows what state the mechanism would have been in with the tide ebbing and flowing twice daily. Nevertheless,’ he held the camera aloft, ‘it is a great tribute to the manufacturing standards of Messrs Leitz. So much so, it has led me to believe we should seize the opportunity.

  ‘I understand they recently received a lifetime award for the greatest contribution to photography of the twentieth century – the development of the 35mm Leica camera.

  ‘There are parallels to be drawn. Our own contribution to the world of haute cuisine has not gone unremarked among the powers that be. What I have in mind is a joint advertising campaign extolling the old-fashioned values common to both our organisations.’

  ‘A photograph of the camera alongside a copy of Le Guide, perhaps?’ suggested Monsieur Pamplemousse. The Director’s enthusiasm was infectious. He could see it all.

  ‘That is one possibility, Aristide,’ said Monsieur Leclercq, clearly gratified at the reception accorded his idea. ‘However, I have since had another flash of inspiration.’ Reaching across his desk, he pressed a button.

  ‘Véronique … Have the prints arrived? Good. Bring them in.’ He turned back to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘As it happens there was a film in the camera and I asked Trigaux to process it. If the pictures turn out well, they will lend added interest to the campaign. A film which has been inside a camera, which has itself lain buried in the sands of Cap d’Antibes for several days will be quite unique.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse looked puzzled. ‘But I didn’t have time to take any pictures, Monsieur. If you recall, I had only just finished loading a new spool when I was attacked from behind.’

  ‘With respect, Aristide, I think you are mistaken. Trigaux assured me the film had been wound back into its cassette, so it must have been exposed. I am hoping you may have some shots of the hotel or
the beach. They would be particularly apposite.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t pursue the conversation, for at that moment Véronique entered the room carrying a large manila envelope. It struck him she was looking unusually nervous as she handed it to Monsieur Leclercq. Patently avoiding eye to eye contact, she left again as quickly as possible.

  ‘And now, the moment of truth!’ Lifting the unsealed flap, the Director felt inside the envelope, withdrew a handful of 210 x 297 mm enlargements, and spread them out across his desk. ‘What did I tell you?’ he exclaimed. ‘Most satisfactory. Typical of the standard one has come to take for granted from Leica – pin-sharp images – all beautifully exposed – lovely gradations. Each one a work of art.’

  Seeing that at first sight the prints appeared to be upside down, he riffled through the pile, turning them round to face the other way. As he did so Monsieur Pamplemousse managed to get a closer look. His heart sank. It was no wonder the Director’s secretary had looked nervous. Taking a deep breath while he waited for the storm to break, he pictured her doing the same thing in the outer office. It had gone very quiet.

  The several seconds which elapsed while Monsieur Leclercq stared at the photographs before he exploded felt like an eternity.

  ‘What are you doing lying on the ground like that, Pamplemousse?’ he demanded. ‘And what are all these girls up to?’ He picked up another picture. ‘And why is that woman crouching over you? She looks young enough to be your daughter.’

  ‘She was about to give me the kiss of life, Monsieur.’

  ‘In the soixante-neuf position?’

  ‘We all have our methods,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse defensively.

  ‘And this one,’ Monsieur Leclercq picked up a third print. ‘What, may I ask, is that object you are clutching?’